


Rhythm of Life

by orphan_account



Category: Castle
Genre: 4x10, Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They have a rhythm.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cuffed add-on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhythm of Life

**Author's Note:**

> For Castleland's Big Bang on LiveJournal.

_"Next time, let's do it without the tiger."_   
  
He goes after her.  How could he not?    
  
He catches up with her in the parking garage where she's standing beside her bike, helmet balanced on the saddle while she fiddles with something at the back.    
  
She looks bemused rather than annoyed when she notices him approaching.  "What're you doing down here?"    
  
He usually leaves the Precinct by the front entrance before hailing a cab or calling his car service.  The only other times he's been down here they've been in a hurry to get to a scene and he's never really looked around properly.    
  
He hasn't been missing much.  It's grey and bland.  Boring.  He wouldn't bother setting any scenes down here for his books.  Although a good murder could make even the most mundane of locations exciting and mysterious, so maybe-  
  
"Castle?"  Her voice brings him back to the present.    
  
"Oh, right."  He shakes his head.  "Aren't you forgetting something?"    
  
She rewards him with a delicate arch of her eyebrows, as he knew she would.    
  
"Come on, it's tradition.  A brush with death equals a family dinner at Casa Castle."    
  
Fulfilling his predictions again, those eyebrows dip into a frown while one side of her mouth hints at a smile.    
  
He sighs.  "Okay, so once hardly counts as a tradition, but traditions have to start somewhere, right?"    
  
She studies him through narrowed eyes for a long moment.  Then she relents, allowing her mouth to stretch into a slow smile.  "Who am I to mess with tradition?"    
  
She turns and he's rewarded with a view of one of those legs that he both admires and respects swinging over the bike so that she's straddling it.  He's so busy admiring and respecting that leg that she has to speak twice before she gets his attention back to her face.    
  
"Hop on."  She's produced a spare helmet from somewhere and is holding it out to him.    
  
He likes to think his squeal of excitement is manly.  The muffled laughter from his companion as she dons her own helmet suggests otherwise.    
  
\--  
  
"Y'know, we could totally ride your bike handcuffed together."    
  
"What for?"  She scoffs.  "Our circus act?"  The elevator stops on his floor and she makes a show of waving him out ahead of her.    
  
In return, he exaggeratedly holds open the door to his loft and beckons her through with a bow and a hint of the dramatic flair that he inherited from his mother.  "I'm just saying, some things are inconvenient when handcuffed left hand to left hand.  That wouldn't be a problem if we were on your bike."    
  
The loft is conspicuously silent.  Neither mentions the fact that his so-called tradition calls for a 'family' dinner and the rest of his family is obviously absent.  He knew that they were away when he invited her and she knew that they were away before she accepted (although maybe she forgot, amid the excitement of handcuffs and tigers).  They roll with it.  They have a rhythm and they’re not going in circles anymore.    
  
She kicks her shoes off at the door, ignoring his only half-jesting offer of assistance.  He drops his jacket onto the back of the sofa and sweeps into the kitchen, pondering the contents of the fridge.  She perches on a stool at the counter, making a comment about beef jerky and waiting until he's decided what they're having before she offers to help.    
  
They're in sync again, as they always seem to be now, whether they're bouncing ideas off each other during a case, or cooking dinner in his kitchen.  Once upon a time that fact would have annoyed and terrified her.  Now it's comforting and familiar.    
  
\--  
  
"So how does today rate on your life-saving scoreboard?"  She cradles her wineglass between two hands, looking at him from beneath her lashes.    
  
He tilts his head as he considers.  “You know, I think we have to chalk this one up to Ryan and Esposito.”    
  
“And Gates?”    
  
He pulls a face, but her cellphone interrupts them before he has a chance to respond.    
  
She pulls the phone from her pocket and smiles at the face on the screen as she answers it.  “Hey, dad.”  She smiles an apology to Castle.    
  
He waves it away, taking their empty glasses back to the kitchen.    
  
While she chats with her father she watches Castle moving about, cleaning up after their meal.    
  
"My day?  Oh, you know, the usual."  She stifles a laugh as Castle mimes 'tigers' and 'handcuffs' from the kitchen.  "No, I'm at Castle's."    
  
They have a rhythm.  It's the only explanation for how she can have a spoken conversation with her dad while simultaneously having a silent conversation with Castle.    
  
"Yeah, we had dinner."    
  
Castle wanders back over, nodding at his office with a questioning expression on his face.    
  
She smiles gratefully as she takes up his offer of privacy.  She enters the room where he writes the books that she loves and moves to his desk.  She sits on his chair and alters the height, just to mess with him.  "Yeah, it was a weird one, actually.  There was a tiger..."    
  
As she tells her dad a heavily edited version of the events of the last couple of days she relaxes in Castle’s desk chair (it’s so much more comfortable than her chair at the precinct) and languidly studies her surroundings.    
  
His desk is relatively neat, holding his laptop, some papers and a couple of photos of Alexis.    
  
She spins slightly and examines the picture on the wall behind her.  The perspective is fascinating and slightly disorientating.  She likes it.  She spins again, looking at the shelves that hold his books and toys (he probably calls them _gadgets_ , but in her opinion a model helicopter can be nothing but a toy).    
  
She completes her slow rotation so that she’s facing the open door again.  She can see Castle out in the main room, stretched out on the couch with his own phone cradled against his ear.  From the expression on his face she thinks he must be talking to his daughter or his mother.    
  
She likes his loft.  It was intimidating the first time she saw it, when she felt like Alfred in the Batcave.  Over time though, familiarity with both the apartment and its occupiers had allowed her to see past the tasteful luxury and into the heart of this home.  Her feelings for Castle had certainly helped.    
  
She can admit it to herself now, sitting in his chair, at his desk in his office, surrounded by his things and very aware of his presence nearby.    
  
It feels like home.    
  
 _Homely_ , she corrects herself.  Not home.  At least, not yet.    
  
She allows herself to release the smile she’s been holding back.    
  
 _One step at a time. _  
  
**End**


End file.
